


As The Flower Withers

by Sjukdom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, M/M, Stalking, gobblepotweek2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/pseuds/Sjukdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stalker became a ghost haunting him, a nightmare that didn't allow him to sleep. He lived in a coma, in a dream, where faceless man came to him and his long transparent fingers burned his flesh like candle wax.<br/>***<br/>Written for Gobblepot Week 2015: Day 3 - Role Reversal. I thought about Jim, which became so obsessed with Oswald that it made him become a bad guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The Flower Withers

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes :)

Oswald knew exactly, how it all had begun. He was in his flat - a one-night stand, he changed them regelarly, afraid to be found by enemies - and thought that now he could finally relax a little and took a nap, as the phone rang. Oswald jerked, surprised by the loudness of this sound in the empty room. He didn't even know that there was a working phone in this flat - a small, deserted place, faceless and forgotten, a perfect one for his purposes. Nobody knew he was here tonight, even his closest allies. Or did someone?

He came closer to the phone, hoping that it would stop ringing. The sound was getting on his nerves and after a few moments Oswald gave up and answered the call. There was nothing but white noise in the receiver. He didn't dare to say something, just kept on listening, recognizing someone's breathing at the other end of the line. The stranger, as if he somehow read his thoughts, whispered suddenly:

"Getting bored alone, Oz? I would entertain you, you know. Have you ever been kissed on your neck? On your belly? On your scrotum?"

Before Oswald could even think about the answer to this embarrasing babble, the stranger hung up.

He shook his head. The cold flat around became suddenly very hot, his clothes seemed too tight, his cheeks burned. Now what _was_ that? Was somebody trying to scare him? Well, they wouldn't succeed, thought he, though his heart was beating like mad and he felt sweat on his face. He tried to get some sleep, but instead just laid down, repeating the conversation again and again in his head. That whisper... It was dry and croaking, filled with lust, luring, dangerous. Oswald still felt it, tickling his ear like a gust of desert wind. He was angry with himself, he was scared, he felt arousal. Too complicated to let it go and forget. 

At last he got up and went to the door, thinking about a gulp of fresh air. Someone left a flower under the door - a tiny marigold, tender and frail. Its petals were scorched a little on the edges - maybe he'd done it with a lighter or with a match. Oswald stared at it for a while, feeling the heat again as if he was that marigold, helpless before the approaching fire. He was sure that the stranger had done it, the one who called him tonight. He knew, where Oswald was, and wanted that Oswald knew it, too. He stepped on the marigold, squashing it under his boot, turning it into a mash of white petals and grey ash.

***

He was alone in the club, when the bartender told him there was a call awaiting him. Oswald had already forgotten the night he got the scorched marygold and the whispering stranger and took the call without hesitation.

"Hello?" said he, sure that it was someone of his people awaiting further instructuions. There was only silence, filled with uneven breathing, which was faster this time. Oswald felt his skin crawling, but tried to drive the feeling away. "Hello? Who is it?"

"You know it", heard he the whisper, the same whisper. The stranger inhaled deeply and went on harshly. "Are you alone there, Ozzy?"

"Who's that?" asked Oswald anxiously. He couldn't guess, who it could be and that distressed him the most. Who would try to scare him with phone calls? Who the hell _could_ be scared with phone calls? 

"Tell me, Ozzy, are you alone there?"

"No, but -"

"Too bad. If you were alone, I would enter the club right now to fuck you. You don't want to do it in public, do you?"

Oswald froze, holding the receiver so tight his fingers hurt. The familiar club suddenly seemed too dark, filled with too many shadows. Who was hiding here? The room was too big to keep an eye on everything. Who could be scared with phone call? Well, _he_ did.

"Oh, it would be such a pleasure for me to bend you over the table, holding your hands behind your back before cuffing them together. You would lay facedown, red with shame, seeing your reflection in one of those lamps of yours, watching as I prepare you for my cock. I guess you're a virgin, yes? So I would stick my fingers inside you gently, one after another, until you would accept all three. It feels good, believe me, and you would be hard and moaning before I even touch your prostate. And when you would be good and loose and wet and so hot you wouldn't be able to stand it any more, until you would beg me to enter you, only then I would slide inside that tight luscious arse of yours and fuck you 'till we both would be breathless and screaming from pleasure.”

The whisper sounded dreamy, thoughtful, mesmerizing. Oswald couldn't move, couldn't even try to stop this madman from telling him all this nonsense, as if he was hypnotized. He listened silently, imagining against his own will everything that the stranger told him. Again he felt arousal, deep in his gut, more intense and demanding than before. He couldn't help thinking that he'd never supposed before that he could provoke such thoughts, that he could be desired that much. 

“Are you still there, Ozzy? And please, don't smash my gift this time. It hurts me to look at that poor flower I gave you because of love. It looks like you didn't like it at all; like you didn't like _me_ at all. Do you like me now, Oz?”

The stranger didn't give him time to answer and hung up immediately. Oswald stood, frozen, not being able to unclench his fingers. He was in some kind of dream, no doubt. All of this couldn't be real. He just imagined that whisper and every dirty thing it said. He was ripped out of his haze by the bartender, which came near him and stood, shifting from feet to feet uneasily. Oswald looked at him, not clearly understanding what was happening, and saw through the veil of sweat, flowing him in the eyes, that he held another marigold, scorched, but still beautiful. 

“Dispose it”, murmured Oswald, feeling himself dizzy. The bartender stared at him nervously.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes. Yes. Leave now”, Oswald waved at him, barely stopping himself from screaming out loud. He couldn't understand himself. Why did he obey? Why did he listen sheepishly? Not only because he was scared. The whisper made him remember something, something he now couldn't see clearly. Or someone.

***

Oswald tried not to answer to any calls at all. This lasted only a couple of days until he got scared that the stalker would come in person. In another lonely flat the phone rang and Oswald took it, thinking that it could be something important. Or... It could be the stalker again. It was crazy, but deep inside Oswald missed his calls, missed this strong feeling he got, listening to him. He was used to be a cripple, good only for laughing at him, a scape-goat, a boy for umbrella. The stalker made him feel special. Wanted. Needed.

“Staying up late, Ozzy?” the familiar whisper burned his ear. “What are doing, jerking off in peace? Remembering what I said to you? Eh?”

Oswald hung up, his heart beating so hard it hurt. Suddenly he was frightened by his own feelings, afraid that he would faint. The phone rang again. And again and again. He turned it off and sat in the middle of the empty dusty room, face buried in his knees, breathing hard. He didn't dare to look out, but was sure that a marigold was there under his door. 

The calls went on. Wherever he was, the stalker found him. He whispered and whispered, voice like snake's hissing, hypnotizing as the siren's song, making him stay awake even at nights, when he didn't call.

“Would you like to be sucked off, Oz? I bet you would. I promise that I would make you _wail_. And after you would come, I'd bend over you, my mouth filled with you semen and pour it in between your lips to let you feel your own taste. Sounds stunning, isn't it?”

The stalker became a ghost haunting him, a nightmare that didn't allow him to sleep. He lived in a coma, in a dream, where faceless man came to him and his long transparent fingers burned his flesh like candle wax. Each word was a new scalding drop. Each word was another sleepless night. Each word brought a new marigold to him, scalded badly. Oswald collected them mindlessly, leaving them wither. Looking at the ashes they turned into, he wondered if he would end like this. If all of that would ever end.

***

The phone rang and Oswald came to it mindlessly, taking the receiver. Near it laid the marigolds, withered and gray, smelling of ashes and coal – of fire. He was overwhelmed by the haze, caused by a lack of sleep. The stalker was a vampire, sucking all strength out of him. The whisper was trembling, excited.

“Don't you think we should meet at last, Oz?”

Oswald stared out of the window. The street outside was empty, lit by the weak light of lanterns. Gray buildings, litter, broken carparts. And a phone box.

“We know each other well by know. We know what we both want. Right?”

Oswald took a closer look at the phone box. Someone stood there, a dim figure, talking on the phone. It was too dark to see clearly, who it was. The stalker kept on talking. A car passed by, illuminating the man in the phone box. It was only a short moment, but it was enough for Oswald to recognize familiar features, short blond hair, wide shoulders, the outlines of the mouth. It was Jim Gordon, talking on the phone. The stalker, whispering in his ear. In his hand he held a marigold, that was not scorched yet.

Yet.


End file.
